Time keeps returning me to a sacred moment with a girl who has changed.
Sitting in this white room, lit by the sun and all that it reflected, there is one girl who knows who she is. The other is beginning to learn. The uncertain girl shares with her friend how meaningful the story of the prodigal son has been and reflects out loud upon the beauty: The Father runs to His son while the son prepares a genuine expression of regret regarding his wanderings. All while the Father is running. Running.
And she told the uncertain girl, “Oh, don’t you know, Grace runs.” And right there, on that empty piano in that white-washed room, she created a song of praise. Two words. Grace. Runs.
While she played, the other girl kneel, body folded over, arms extended. Tears. They formed a puddle on the ground. Holy water. The kind that only comes from opening every closed-off place, bearing the deepest fears, pain, unbearable sorrow, before the One who already knows. He already knows. And He runs. Grace runs.
These are the tears that heal. She lay there, allowing the Father to reach every last place, as long as it took, while remembering his promise that he stores all her tears in a bottle. And her friend, her friend who paused once to praise the Father for the puddle, she played on until the healing had taken place. Singing, Grace runs.
Prodigal, you have never gone too far. “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he RAN to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.” (Luke 15:20)
Forget not that Grace himself runs to you. Grace runs to the places that have been wounded by the world. Grace runs to the aches, the grief, the wandering soul. Grace runs to reach you and prepares for you a banquet.
